


Viperidae

by asterismal (asterisms)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Post-Canon, Biting, Established Relationship, Kit Approved, M/M, Neck Kissing, Voldemort has fangs, Voldemort may or may not have hair
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-29
Updated: 2020-02-29
Packaged: 2021-02-28 00:48:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22961197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asterisms/pseuds/asterismal
Summary: With a wordless hiss, Voldemort lunges forward again and Harry stills, eyes wide, breathless at the sudden feeling of Voldemort’s fangs pressed against the fragile skin of his throat.When he swallows, he feels the way they scrape against his skin.His hands clench where they’re gripping tight at Voldemort’s robes, desperate to hold on to something,anything."Vee," he says, voice shaking.Voldemort has fangs. Harry likes them.
Relationships: Harry Potter/Tom Riddle, Harry Potter/Voldemort
Comments: 20
Kudos: 1107





	Viperidae

**Author's Note:**

  * For [local_doom_void](https://archiveofourown.org/users/local_doom_void/gifts).



> one pact fulfilled, one to go :elmo: this _was_ going to be utter nonsense, but then harry decided he's super into being bitten and honestly who am i to stop him?? 
> 
> i hope you enjoy, kit! bc i am placing the blame for this one on you :))
> 
> also bc it was mentioned lmao kit (as in "kit approved") is the name of the person i wrote this fic for

When the fifth person in as many days attempts to assassinate Lord Voldemort as he leaves the Ministry for the day, his head of security puts her foot down. Without any care to his protests, she informs him that he’ll be staying within the wards of his manor until this newest threat is handled, and that’s that.

“But why do I have to stay there?” Harry asks her later, only hours after having a good laugh at his lover’s predicament. He never thought the lockdown might apply to him as well. If he had, he might have fought it sooner. “It’s not as if they’ve made any attempts on  _ me.” _

“You’re important to him,” Griffiths tells him, her arms crossed over her chest.

At that, Harry has to bite back a pleased grin. Still, he must protest. “So?”

“So you’re a target,” Griffiths says briskly. She looks around with narrowed eyes, as if the would-be-assassins might attack at any moment. “If they can’t get to him, where do you think they’ll turn next?”

Harry sighs. “Me?” he asks.

“You,” she confirms.

And so Harry gracefully accepts his house arrest. Which is to say he spends the next week doing his best to distract himself in ways that don’t make him a nuisance before he gives up and resorts to bothering his lover throughout the day, an endeavor that is almost certain to result in either a fight or a nice bout of fucking.

At this point, he could go for either.

Today, Harry is just bored enough that an afternoon spent keeping Voldemort company as he works in his study is his best option. Which is why he’s sprawled sideways in the chair opposite his lover’s large, ornate desk, slouching with his legs kicked over one arm.

Eventually, he grows tired of watching the way the skin just above the bridge of Voldemort’s nose scrunches when he comes across a particularly trying problem.

“You should take a break,” Harry informs his lover.

He knows by now that Voldemort will disagree, but he  _ also  _ knows that he can provoke the man into the most entertaining of conversations, and he’s willing to give it a go if it means saving himself from the utter boredom that is life in this needlessly opulent manor house until the security threat is handled.

Surprising absolutely no one, Voldemort doesn’t respond.

Harry tries again.

This time, he begins with a sigh. When Voldemort still doesn’t look away from the papers strewn before him, the scratching of his quill not pausing even for a moment, he says, “I know you can hear me.”

The quill stops. Then it starts again.

“Come  _ on,  _ Vee,” Harry says, turning in his chair so his feet land with a thump on the floor. He leans forward. “You’ve been working for hours. At least stop to eat something.”

Voldemort pointedly doesn’t look at him. “I’m busy.”

“You know, Griffiths confined you here to prevent your death by assassination. I don’t think she’d appreciate you working yourself to an early grave.”

Voldemort scoffs.

Harry settles back into his chair, watches as Voldemort once more absorbs himself in his work. While he certainly could leave the man be, he has nothing better to do. So.

It’s time to be a bother.

He pushes himself to his feet and makes his way around Voldemort’s large desk to stand beside his chair. When the man doesn’t react, he drops himself into Voldemort’s lap, determined not to be ignored any longer.

If Voldemort is annoyed by Harry’s sudden weight in his lap, he doesn’t show it. Instead, he only grips Harry’s thighs and pulls him closer, looking as if he’s trying not to smile. “Can I help you?” he asks.

“You can,” Harry says. He shifts, crosses his arms over his chest. “Entertain me.”

“Why should I?”

“It’s your fault I’m here,” Harry tells him, because it  _ is, _ “You should make it up to me.”

“My fault?” Voldemort asks, offended.

“Mhm.” Harry uncrosses his arms and pokes Voldemort in the chest with one finger. “You see, if you weren’t so awful, I’d be free to leave. As it is, you  _ are  _ awful, and so now I’m stuck here until everyone who wants to kill you either fucks off or gets caught.”

Voldemort looks as if he wants nothing more than to roll his eyes. “Blaming the victim, dearest?” he asks, wry.

Harry snorts. He leans forward to press a chaste kiss to Voldemort’s lips, then says, as sweet as can be, “You deserve it.”

In response, Voldemort only bares his teeth.

While this isn’t the first time he’s done so, this  _ is  _ the first time Harry has noticed one particularly important detail. Whatever he’d been about to say next is forgotten. “What the fuck,” he says instead.

Voldemort’s eyes narrow, perhaps in concern. “What?” he asks, voice flat.

“How long have you had fangs?” Harry demands, feeling betrayed because this is absolutely something Voldemort should have told him by now.

Voldemort scoffs. “Since before you were born,” he says. He leans back in his chair, and his hands on Harry’s things move higher, until he’s gripping Harry’s waist. “Have you truly never noticed?”

Harry flushes—because yes, this is probably something he should have noticed on his own, but  _ still _ —“You never told me!”

“I didn’t think I needed to.”

Harry glares. Then he shuffles forward so he can get a better look at the shape of Voldemort’s mouth. “Show me,” he says.

Voldemort narrows his eyes, and Harry is certain he’s being laughed at when Voldemort says, “Ask nicely.”

Harry holds onto his glare for just a moment longer, just long enough to show Voldemort he could resist if he really wanted to. Then, he lets it go. He widens his eyes, all but pouting as he sways further into Voldemort’s space and cradles his jaw in his hands. “Please,” he says. He presses a kiss to the corner of Voldemort’s mouth, smiling when the man’s lips part, just barely, at his touch. “Please, my lord, will you show me?”

Voldemort’s hold on his waist grows tighter. Without warning, he surges closer to answer Harry’s plea with an open-mouthed kiss. Harry lets his eyes fall shut and trails his hands away from Voldemort’s jaw and down his neck, meeting him in kind.

When he pulls away, gasping for breath, he licks at his stinging bottom lip and grins. “That was very nice, Vee,” he says. He taps his fingers against Voldemort’s neck in a blatant show of being irritating. “But it isn’t what I asked for.”

Voldemort glares, but the spots of pink on his cheeks, the way his pulse beats rapidly against Harry’s fingertips on his throat, give him away. The next time he opens his mouth, a pair of fangs, sharp and glistening, hinges forward.

For a moment, Harry forgets to breathe.

The sight of them is… certainly something, Harry thinks as he shifts in Voldemort’s lap, cheeks flushing.

He’s suddenly aware of the solid heat of Voldemort’s thighs between his own, of the way his hands are heavy on Harry’s hips. When he manages to drag his gaze away, he sees Voldemort is watching him, eyes narrowed in amusement. Harry takes a shuddering breath, finds his eyes once more trained on the man’s fangs.

He wants to touch them, he realizes.

More than anything.

So he does the only logical thing; he sticks his fingers in Voldemort’s mouth.

At the sudden intrusion, Voldemort’s eyes widen in outrage. His nostrils flare. Through Harry’s fingers, he manages a strangled sound of protest, and Harry hums in thought, possibilities slipping across his mind like sunlight over waves. “Interesting,” he says, breathless, trailing one finger across Voldemort’s gumline as he rises higher on his knees to peer closer at his open mouth.

A muffled snarl is the only warning he gets before Voldemort bites down, and Harry only just misses getting his fingers impaled as he pulls them away.

“Rude,” he says with a glare, put out at being deprived. He wipes his now saliva-covered fingers across the shoulder of Voldemort’s robes.

“Do that again,” Voldemort says, and his fangs glisten as he speaks, “and I’ll kill you.”

Harry laughs at the threat. “You wouldn’t,” he says—half-fond, half-challenge. “You’d miss me too much.”

With a wordless hiss, Voldemort lunges forward again and Harry stills, eyes wide, breathless at the sudden feeling of Voldemort’s fangs pressed against the fragile skin of his throat.

When he swallows, he feels the way they scrape against his skin.

His hands clench where they’re gripping tight at Voldemort’s robes, desperate to hold on to something,  _ anything. _ “Vee,” he says, voice shaking.

Voldemort hums against his throat, and Harry can’t help the whine that’s dragged out of him. Voldemort’s mouth opens wider, and now Harry feels not their lengths but their needle sharp points. He tries his best to hold himself still, but it isn’t working. His white-knuckled grip on Voldemort’s robes twists as warring desires flood through him. He wants to pull away. He needs to be closer.

“Please,” he says, gasping for breath.

The fangs press harder, just shy of breaking skin, and he chokes, trembling. He clenches his eyes shut, and when Voldemort grins, the shift in pressure is enough to make him whine again. He feels almost sick with anticipation, as if he could die here in Voldemort’s lap, as if he wouldn’t mind.

Voldemort pulls back, just enough that his fangs no longer threaten to tear into his throat, though he can still feel them against his skin, and Harry sways forward, chest heaving.

He feels as if he’s just run a marathon.

He feels—

“Will you behave now?” Voldemort asks against his skin, pulling him ever closer. When he kisses Harry’s throat, the touch of his fangs makes him shiver.

Harry nods, and Voldemort tsks.

He raises one hand to grab Harry by the hair, pulls his head back so his neck is fully bared. He kisses Harry’s throat again, and then he bites. “Use your words, dearest,” he says.

Harry takes a shuddering breath. “I will,” he says, and the way his voice breaks would embarrass him but for the need to get those fangs on him again as soon as possible.

He feels Voldemort smile and say, “Good.” Then the world shifts as Voldemort stands from his chair, and he finds himself flat on his back across his desk.

He stares up at his lover, eyes wide, waiting to see what he’ll do next.

“Perhaps I should have shown you sooner,” Voldemort muses as he rubs his hands up and down Harry’s thighs where they’re splayed over the edge of his desk. He leans down, nips at Harry’s throat and sighs in pleasure when Harry shivers. “So sweet for me,” he says, gently mocking.

“Shut up,” Harry replies, his voice faint.

Voldemort bites him harder, then, and Harry feels all the fight drain away, leaving him little more than a trembling mess beneath Voldemort’s touch.

Then he has a thought that makes him pause, though not nearly as much as it probably should.

“Your fangs. Do they, um—” He cuts himself off, gasping when Voldemort sucks a bruise into the skin of his throat. He gathers himself enough to ask, “Venom?”

“Of course,” Voldemort tells him, as if the idea that his already lethal fangs wouldn’t be even  _ more  _ dangerous is absurd.

“Is it safe?” he asks, doing his best to glare when Voldemort only laughs at him.

Then Voldemort bites at his collarbone, and he decides he doesn’t actually care. As Voldemort opens his robes and kisses down his chest, leaving bruises and bite marks in his wake, it’s only the heavy press of one hand against Harry’s hip that keeps him in place. He arches into Voldemort’s touch, admits to himself that the danger is probably worth it. 

And anyway, he thinks as he grabs Voldemort by the shoulders and pulls him into a demanding kiss, it was a dumb question.

His time with Voldemort has been  _ many _ things; safe has never been one of them. 


End file.
